What she thinks?

She lays the scented silks,
she lies down on it.
She is a native here.
Her spirit calls her,
Fragile yet solid.
She thinks,
"who is she?",
an exhausted maid,
Or a despised women.
She thinks,
"what's her personality"
is she sophisticated,
Or is she wildly tangy.
She thinks,
"What to accept?"
Tuants of envy,
Or words of praise.
She can smell it,
unaware that it's smoke billowing from her lover's chimney.
She thinks,
"why they think?"
That she is shallow, scornful, not benevolent, gracious.
She is lying there
it's just the morning of her life,
she will keep thinking
until night.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem